


Sawyer Sometimes

by 1001cranes



Category: Lost
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe its the cephalexin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sawyer Sometimes

Jack and Sawyer are friends now, like two rivals who end up bonding over beer because the head cheerleader they were fighting over broke both their hearts. Except it’s not beer, it’s cephalexin, and Kate is an ex-con who didn’t break their hearts so much as try to lead them around by their dicks. Which was a pretty good plan, all things considered, and might have worked if Sawyer hadn’t known cons quite so intimately and Jack was really as dumb as he looked.

It’s not that Jack and Sawyer don’t fight. Jack’s do-gooder attitude grates on Sawyer and Sawyer… well, Sawyer grates on everyone. But every now and then they can exchange a couple dozen words without trying to kill each other. They’re the conned laughing over the con. Ha ha ha, Kate almost had us, didn’t she?

Sawyer still gets a kick out of that. How Freckles almost had him. He had the goddamn suitcase in his hands and she _still_ almost had him. He had known from the moment he saw her that she had worked on the wrong side of the line at one time or another, but he’d assumed she’d been dragged into it. Which just goes to show you shouldn’t assume anything.

Freckles has faded from island existence. No more grave robbing anyway. She gathers fruit with Sayid and messes around in the garden with Sun. When there isn’t anything else to do, she heads down to the beach and stares out at the sea and runs her fingers over something she keeps in her pocket. Sawyer figures it’s whatever was in the suitcase. His curiosity is killing him, but he won’t ask. Freckles looks a little brittle around the edges and although Sawyer might be a bastard, even he won’t kick someone when they’re sure to break.

Jack, now. Jack isn’t anywhere near brittle or breaking. As far as Sawyer is concerned, Jack is fair game.

 

The first morning Sawyer wakes up in a pool of water is the last. He calls it quits and moves to the caves. The tides are inconsistent and unpredictable, and that makes them dangerous. As far as Sawyer is concerned that’s the bottom line. The mortality rate on the island is all ready troubling, there’s no need to tempt fate. When Sawyer heads inland a lot of people follow him, because he may be a mean sonuvabitch but he’s got survival instinct. He just finds it funny that he has some sway on the island after all. Jack heads back to the beach the next day and manages to convince the stragglers.

That’s when the real fun begins. Twenty caves, forty some-odd survivors, and the ensuing chaos is immensely entertaining. Everyone running around, trying to find a decent cave, a decent roommate. Princess has a piss fit when she doesn’t get her own cave and eventually ends up with Kate. Sawyer can’t wait to see the sparks fly over that one. After that, predictability: Michael and Walt, Sun and Jin, Locke and Boone, Hurley and Charlie. And Sayid gets shunted off to a guy named Tim or Tom or something. Sawyer doesn’t particularly care either.

Sawyer grins when Jack walks into the cave.

“Hey roomie.”

Jack gives him the hairy eyeball.

“Don’t give me that look. _I_ don’t understand why everyone else refused to share a cave with me.”

“Don’t start.”

“And yet they wouldn’t let me have my own cave. Never happy,” Sawyer continues blithely. “You just can’t please some people.”

“Sawyer. Shut up.”

Sawyer settles back against his bag, not offended in the least.

 

Sometimes Sawyer thinks about the Sawyer-Kate-Jack triangle they had. It plays out a little too neatly in his mind. Now Sawyer can see that Kate handpicked them to play parts, like something out of a romance novel. Kate was the beautiful princess just waiting for someone to rescue her. Jack was that someone, of course. The hero. Sawyer was more like the villain. The very attractive villain, who understood all of Kate’s darkness. Everything she wanted. Sawyer’s willing to admit it makes for an interesting story, but the major premise is flawed. Kate didn’t choose her characters very well. Not that she had much choice, being stuck on an island, but Jack just isn’t the storybook hero type. He’s not a cardboard figure with no problems of his own. Storybook heroes are never shy about doing things, never afraid of misinterpreting signals and offending someone. And even if Jack _wanted_ to help Kate, he couldn’t. Kate doesn’t seem to understand that you’re the only person who can save you from yourself.

So the tale takes a frustrating twist. The princess locks herself in an ivory tower – figuratively, of course. Not even this acid trip of an island has ivory towers – the hero doesn’t realize he’s done anything wrong, and the villain finds himself paying more attention to the hero than the princess. Sawyer’s pretty sure it’s not heading for a happy ending. He and Jack fell for a pretty face because Jack thought she was like him and because Sawyer thought she wasn’t. And _both_ of them were wrong. Now the Sawyer-Kate-Jack triangle is just Sawyer-Jack. That’s not a triangle, ladies and gents, and therein lies the problem. The situation didn’t disappear when Kate did. Jack and Sawyer are still here. But where’s ‘here’? Where the hell does it all leave them?

At that moment Sawyer would have gladly traded his remaining cigarettes for a bottle of JD.

 

Life on the island is too damn idyllic for Sawyer. Sticks is too busy flirting with Abdul to piss much of anyone off, and Walt and Michael have stopped squabbling and started bonding. Which is sweet, really, it is, but also nowhere near as entertaining. Sawyer doesn’t want the mysterious island monster or the crazy French woman or the Canadian kidnapper to wreak anymore havoc, but it would be nice to have a little excitement.

The only thing to do is watch Doc work himself into a frazzle. Jack’s busy playing Boy Scout - tending wounds, fixing problems, working on a dozen projects at once. He’s not taking care of himself. His hero complex is getting the best of him, and he needs help. It was inevitable that he turned to someone.

 

“Why are Michael and Jin fighting?”

Sawyer pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and smiles. “Hello to you too, Doc.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Hello, Sawyer. Why are Michael and Jin fighting?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Sawyer, you _know_ everything. Especially if it’s someone else’s business.”

That’s true enough. Sawyer shrugs and tells him. “What do men usually fight over, Doc?”

Jack’s brow furrows. “You mean… Sun?”

“There. Knew you couldn’t be as dumb as you looked.”

“But she’s Jin’s wife.”

Now it’s Sawyer’s turn to roll his eyes. “Like it counts for all that much in civilization, for Christ’s sake, much less the middle of nowhere.” He adjusts his sunglasses and leans back. “At the moment, my bet’s on hubbie dearest. Sun’s the self-sacrificing type, even though she loves Construction Boy.”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love. You know, hearts, flowers, sex, chirping little birdies?”

“Ah. Right.”

“Mind moving? You’re in my light.”

After a moment’s hesitation Jack plops down on the sand beside Sawyer.

“I just… Sun is scared, Walter is scared, and Sayid looks like he wants to bash both their heads together.”

“Not tie them to a tree and torture them?”

“Can’t let him do that anymore. I’m running out of med supplies.”

It takes Sawyer a while to realize that he’s joking. By then Jack is on his feet and heading back inland.

 

One of the bad things about the island is that during the day it’s not really safe to jack off. At least not in the caves. Too many people passing and no way to stop anyone from looking in and getting a free show. And hey, Sawyer is all for sex in public places, but even he has to draw the line somewhere.

One of the good things about the island is that there’s plenty of fodder for the imagination if you’re not too picky about gender. There’s Boone, who’s just about too pretty for his own good. Then Shannon, Boone’s dearest sister, because she just looks like a woman who would really enjoy sex. Sawyer’s thought about Charlie a few times too, because the puppyish look makes him almost as cute as Boone is pretty. He used to think about Kate a lot, but not anymore, because now the only advantage she has over the rest of the island is a nice rack. Sawyer’s not that much of a breast man. Sawyer’s thought about Sayid too, maybe once or twice, because even though he hates everything about the guy he can still see the attraction. Jack? He’d spent a lot of time thinking about Jack lately. Helping the good doctor lose some of his inhibitions. Isn’t that what the bad guy’s supposed to do? Corrupt the good guy? Sawyer’d be a little lax in his villainous duties if he didn’t at least try.

 

The only thing Sawyer has figured out about Locke so far is that he’s one creepy son of a bitch. Some nights he sits next to Sawyer and strikes up a conversation whether Sawyer wants to talk or not. That doesn’t bug him. Hurley and Charlie and Walt do it all the time. The part that bugs him is the feeling he can’t shake, the same feeling he’s getting right now. A tingling up his spine that tells Sawyer there’s something going on underneath the surface. He’s run through enough successful cons and scraped his way out of enough bad ones to pay attention to it.

“You’ve got a gift for finding things.”

“Pardon?”

Locke grins like he knew Sawyer heard him perfectly well the first time. “But you can only find something that wants to be found.”

And even though he can’t put a finger on exactly why, sometimes Sawyer gets the feeling that Locke is conning them all.

 

Sawyer’s a light sleeper. A very light sleeper. Almost anything will wake him up. Someone talking outside the cave, for instance. Or if Sayid were to throw more wood on the fire. Or if Jack were to unzip his pants. Sawyer might be able to hear the _clickclickclick_ of metal in a solid stone cave. Sawyer might also be able to hear if Jack were to try and muffle a groan, or forget to breathe and then gasp. He might hear small, wet sounds, the quiet rasp of skin on skin.

And maybe he’ll watch Jack from behind the hair he lets fall into his eyes. Maybe he’d curse that there wasn’t better light. Maybe once Jack was all done and drifting off again, Sawyer would reach down and unzip his own jeans and let himself think, just for a second, that Jack was looking at him.

 

Something wakes Sawyer in the middle of the night. A strange noise just outside the cave. For a second he freezes, and reaches for the knife he keeps under his pillow, brain screaming all sorts of really unpleasant things – Ethan, crazy French woman, another _fucking_ polar bear – before he opens his eyes and sees it’s Jack, and that he’s outside the cave on his knees, puking.

Jack is too smart to have eaten something strange looking - hello, doctor? - and since he ate the same boar Sawyer did, food poisoning is out. He might be just sick, with some weird tropical flu or something, but from the lines on his face and the way his shoulders are shaking Sawyer thinks its something else entirely.

He could pretend he never woke up. He thinks about it for a second. The urge to walk over to Jack and just insult him is overwhelming. Or at least hold it over his head until the perfect opportunity to humiliate him appears. That’s Sawyer’s first reaction. The second reaction is wanting to _help_ Jack and that’s something Sawyer hasn’t felt like doing in a long time. Helping someone, that is, without expecting something in return. Hell, helping someone at all.

He should roll over and go back to sleep, because it would make everything easier and less awkward on so many levels, and it would require no more introspection. Sawyer’s gotten good at avoiding introspection.

But Jack is outside puking his guts out and Sawyer finds, for whatever reason, he just can’t ignore that.

So he crawls out of bed, grabs a bottle of water from his pack and heads outside, making some noise on his way out. No sense in giving Jack a heart attack on top of everything.

“Here.” He presses the bottle up against Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s bare shoulder, for the record. Never let it be said Sawyer has no restraint.

“You know the drill. Rinse, chug some down. You’ll feel better.”

Jack takes the bottle with shaky hands. “Thanks.” He rinses out his mouth before pressing the bottle to his forehead. The water’s not cold. Must be reflex.

“Helluva nightmare,” Sawyer says mildly, like he was making conversation about the weather. Polite conversation at that. Jack’s thrown off a little, but he’s too shaken up to care.

Jack nods and takes another drink of water.

“Let’s get you back in the cave.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Sawyer keeps careful hold of Jack’s arm all the way to his bed. He watches Jack settle down on the blanket, embarrassment all but radiating off of him. Nothing brings you lower quicker than having someone watch you puke your guts out.

Sawyer leans up against his pack and watches Jack through carefully lidded eyes.

“You can go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look it.” A little too pale underneath his tan. Sawyer pulls another bottle of water out of his pack and rolls it over to Jack. “Water’s free.”

Jack’s gaze locks to the floor. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Really.” What is said in the cave stays in the cave, provided Jack doesn’t speak of Sawyer’s moment of helpful weakness.

Jack’s eyes meet Sawyer’s for the first time that night and something of his old smile reappears. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

They sit in uncomfortable silence. Sawyer knows he won’t be nodding off anytime soon and Jack probably won’t be either. If they were something more like friends they might talk, but they aren’t and they don’t. Simple. He should accept that. Sawyer hasn’t wanted friends in a long time anyway.

He’s surprised to find himself asking.

“Mind telling me what it was about, your nightmare?”

Jack shifts uncomfortably. “Why do you want to know?”

“Blackmail purposes, mostly,” Sawyer says gravely. “Then there’s that crazy ‘talking about what’s bothering you’ thing. Confession is good for the soul, all that crap. We could try it if you like.”

Another hint of a smile. “And here I didn’t think you cared.”

“Well, I don’t. But you woke me up, I figure you could at least entertain me. ‘Sides. I know a thing or two about nightmares.”

“Do you.”

Sawyer gives Jack his very best Southern ‘mhmmm’.

Jack cracks his neck. “Okay. This nightmare. I get it a lot.”

Sawyer knows. Jack wakes Sawyer up sometimes when he talks or kicks in his sleep. It’s just never been this bad before.

“It’s this operation. A surgery I was doing. This girl. A pregnant girl.” Pause. “She died.”

“I hear that happens sometimes.”

“Not like this. It was …”

“Complicated.” Go figure.

“Right. And it’s always that operation. Except this time when I pull the mask off the girl, it’s Claire.”

Ah. That would be the problem, wouldn’t it?

“She’s still alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I believe that. And you don’t know she’s not.” Sawyer’s personal brand of logic.

Jack doesn’t say anything.

Sawyer tries again. “You blame yourself for that? Claire? Ethan?”

Jack’s deadened gaze is all the answer Sawyer needs.

“I mean, really. If anything you should be blaming Charlie.”

Jack’s head snaps up.

“He was with her, wasn’t he? Sure, he’s a little guy, but he’s scrappy. I bet he could have taken Ethan if he’d really tried.”

“Don’t say that. He – ”

Sawyer continues. “But hey, maybe we should blame Tubby. He could have worked through that manifest a little quicker, figured things out. Only forty-two of us, shouldn’t have taken that long.”

“Don’t you _dare_ –” Jack leaps to his feet and has Sawyer by the throat.

“Or maybe,” Sawyer hisses, “We could blame the guy who, I don’t know, actually _kidnapped_ her.”

Jack’s hand drops from Sawyer’s throat.

“Yeah. Funny how that works.”

Jack runs his fingers through his hair and sits back down. “Sorry.”

“That’s a new one. Don’t hurt yourself.” Sawyer lights up a cigarette and breathes deeply. Jack watches the trails of smoke and, for once, doesn’t say a word about cancer.

 

When Jack walks out of the cave the next morning, Sawyer is sitting outside the entrance reading _Watership Down_. Again.

Michael looks up from where he’s poking at the fire.

“Hey Jack. You finished?”

Jack stretches. “Finished?”

“The inventory. Sawyer told us you didn’t want anyone disturbing you. So are you?”

“Am I what?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Finished.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m finished. With the inventory.” Jack looks at Sawyer and grins. “Did you need something?”

“I’ve got the showers almost done, I just need someone to hold up the poles while I pound ‘em in.”

“Count me in. Sawyer, you coming?”

Oh, hell no. Sawyer pulls his hat over his eyes and glowers. He hated when his good deeds were found out. He feels a sudden urge to go pick a fight with someone. Maybe Sayid. Sayid was always good for that.

 

Sawyer has to admit, it’s hot. Really fucking hot. He grew up in the Deep South – he knows hot, okay? This… this island is just _insane_. Hot outside, hot in the caves, hot in the shade. Hot and humid, all the moisture in your body just sucked out of you. And it doesn’t help that it’s boring as fuck either. If anyone else gets into a petty bitch fit, Sawyer will kill them. From the way Abdul is glaring at them and twitching, Sawyer might be able to talk him into helping.

“S’it.” Sawyer struggles to his feet and reaches for a water bottle.

“Where are you going?” Kate asks fuzzily.

“Waterfall.” At her raised eyebrow he adds, “Not like it can be any hotter down there.”

“Sawyer, it’s a mile walk.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s water. Anyone else feel like coming?”

Charlie mumbles something that Sawyer thinks was, “I’m not bloody movin’,” but could very well have been almost anything else.

“I’m with him, dude,” Hurley chimes in. “Fat men were not made for walking in hot weather.”

Sawyer likes Hurley. He’s got a way of laying things out straight, no pussyfooting around with what he’s saying. So honest it throws people off, and Sawyer likes that. Hurley seems like his opposite sometimes. Or maybe just all the parts of him he left behind.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Can I come?”

Walter is looking up at him with eyes that are way too wide. Sawyer nods at Michael. “Did you ask your daddy?”

Michael stares at him for a moment. “He can go. But I’m coming too.”

Saw that one coming. “Any other takers?”

A few others struggle to their feet. Sayid starts to get up, but Sticks touches his ankle and shakes her head, and just like that he sits back down. Sawyer doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes.

“Guess we’re heading out.”

 

The walk through the jungle just about kills him. But seeing all that water – glorious, cold water – is enough to revive everyone. Sawyer pulls off his shirt, grabs his lighter and cigarettes from his pocket, drops them to the ground, and jumps in.

Hours later – maybe it just feels like hours – he’s floating on his back, ignoring the world. For a minute he can pretend it’s just another pool in just another hotel. Just like old times.

“These are bad for you, you know.”

Sawyer opens one eye and sighs loudly. Jack is holding the pack of cigarettes in his hand. “Thanks for the public service announcement.” He swims towards shore and rest his elbows on the rocky edge.

“You’ve got to be almost out. What are you going to do then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Find something else to put in my mouth.” Not the most innocent of comments. Especially eye level with Jack’s crotch. Sawyer ducks underwater and swims for the falls. When he surfaces Jack is gone.

 

Its two nights later that Sawyer finds Jack on his knees, puking outside the cave. Its routine now, bringing him a bottle of water and dragging him back to his bed.

“Same dream?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Little different. Variation on a theme.” Jack splashes his face with water.

“Still Claire’s face.”

“Not tonight.”

“But most times.”

“Most times,” Jack concedes, and Sawyer leaves it at that. These conversations go no where and Sawyer can’t figure out why. They’re subtle give and takes where both of them seem to be giving but not getting.

Jack rocks back on his heels. “You ever feel lost Sawyer?”

Sawyer doesn’t say anything, just inhales sharply. Jack hurries on like he expects Sawyer to break in anytime and start mocking him, but he wants to get it out anyway.

“Like you don’t know who you are? Or who you were? Like you don’t… _want_ to know?” Long pause. “Does it ever seem like the only thing scarier than being lost is being found?” Sawyer stares at him, and Jack begins to laugh a little. “Crazy, I know but…”

“It’s not crazy,” Sawyer says gruffly. “You’re not crazy. It’s the Island.” And for the first time he says it the way Locke says it – Island, capital I – and he wonders if the old geezer saw this too.

Jack seems to be over his talkative stage, so Sawyer slings a companiable arm around his shoulders and prepares to drag him back into the cave.

“Did I ever mention how grateful I am that you puke outside?”

 

The next day Sawyer slips away after lunch to look for Locke. He finds him in the wood clearing, which is lucky. If Locke’s not in the wood clearing he’s off in the jungle and no one can find him out there. Boone is there too, which shouldn’t be a surprise. Boone and Locke have been joined at the hip – and perhaps other places? – lately.

Sawyer doesn’t want to talk to Boone though. Only Locke.

“Mind ditching Pretty Boy for a moment?”

Locke jerks his head and just like that Boone walks away.

“Got him well-trained.”

“Just asking for a little privacy. I thought you’d want it.”

Locke continues chopping wood while Sawyer stands and stares. He’s got a millions questions he wants to ask and no way to put them into words.

“How’d you know?”

“About what?”

About Jack, he almost blurts out. “About finding things. What you said that night. What you meant.”

“You see things differently,” Locke says. “You’ve got sharp eyes, a sharp mind. You understand people, Sawyer. That’s a rare thing.”

“I don’t understand you.”

And he doesn’t. Locke is static, a blip on the radar screen that always manages to throw him off. Sawyer makes his living by knowing people. Human beings are simple creatures. They’re predictable. They follow patterns and routines. Action, reaction. Cause, effect. Sure, every so often there’s an exception, but even exceptions follow certain rules. Locke is the exception to the exception. A complete anomaly. Sawyer can’t say that doesn’t intrigue him. Can’t say that doesn’t creep him out either.

“I don’t understand you,” he says again.

“It’s not me you want to understand.”

“Jack.”

“Yes.”

Sometimes Locke feels like the father confessor Sawyer never had.

“You know, Sawyer, I’d like to help you. Really, I would, but the truth is I don’t know how to. I haven’t figured you out yet. You push people away, I understand that. But to protect yourself or protect them? Punish yourself or punish them? Because you just don’t know how to react?” Taps the ax against the wood block. “I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

“I – ”

“Don’t tell me. It ruins it if you tell me.”

Sawyer is used to being in charge of conversation and Locke just keeps playing with his head.

“Jack…”

“Right, Jack. Of course. Jack… I imagine you all ready know quite a bit about Jack.”

Sounds like a challenge to Sawyer.

“Hero-complex. A bit obsessive compulsive about things. Used to being in charge, being the authority figure. Good doctor, shitty bedside manner. He feels guilty about Claire. And about Charlie. About a lot of things that aren’t his fault.” And oh, but that wasn’t personal, was it, _Sawyer_?

“That’s true. But do you know why?”

“Why? Because he’s wired that way, that’s why.”

Locke fixes him with one of his eagle-eyed stares, and Sawyer should know better than to con a con. But Locke is also looking at him like he expects Sawyer to answer, and that, at least, is a game Sawyer knows how to play.

“Sound like you’ve all ready figured that part out,” he drawls.

Locke sighs and goes back to chopping wood. “Realize that I am telling you this in confidence.”

How peachy.

“Jack and I have talked a time or two about his father. I’ve personally never met the man, but I don’t like him.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s what you would call a bastard.”

“A bastard, huh?”

“Yes. Elitist, arrogant, homophobic. Verbally abusive. An alcoholic, if I don’t miss my guess, and I rarely,” Locke grins. “Miss my guess.”

Sawyer’s mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around the possibilities of the fourth word. “Homophobic?” Damn it, he just echoed Locke again.

“Can you think of a more useless thing to be?”

“Racist?”

Locke laughs and throws the bundle of wood over his shoulder. “That’s what I like about you Sawyer. Never at a loss for words. Very witty. I think Machiavelli himself would have had trouble bantering with you.”

Sawyer knows their conversation about Jack is over. “Well, that’s quite the compliment.”

“That’s true.” Locke tilts his head to the side. “But you didn’t say thank you.”

Sawyer knows that from Locke it’s a question, not an admonishment. “I usually don’t.”

“And why is that?”

“There’s courtesy and then there’s manners. I’m courteous, but I don’t have manners.” Don’t use them anyway.

Locke is humming under his breath. “So you see the distinction between the two?”

Ever since he was eight and caught himself saying thank you to every asshole who stopped by the funeral home to say ‘sorry for your loss’ but wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Yeah. I do.”

Locke flashes another of his trademark half-smiles. “Don’t worry so much about Jack. I’m confident you’ll figure it out.”

Another thing Sawyer doesn’t understand is how Locke’s approval makes him feel better.

 

“You spent a lot of time with Locke today.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not joining Locke’s harem. Boone is all the pretty one man can handle.”

Jack’s eyebrow twitches and Sawyer can’t resist teasing him some more.

“You realize they’re fucking? Locke and Boone?”

Jack blushes. “Sawyer…”

“I’m serious. You need to have a talk with them about safe sex. I don’t think they’re practicing.”

 

Lately, Sawyer’s been thinking about Jack’s hands. A lot. It’s becoming a bit of a fixation. Jack’s good with his hands, at least when he’s helping Locke work out the knots in his nets and Sun with weeding the garden. They’re good hands; long fingers, strong, always sure and steady. Sawyer’s become something of a fan, and so has his subconscious apparently, since he can’t stop dreaming about those hands running over his body.

The one of Jack jerking him off is his favorite. Sawyer thinks Jack would give a mean hand job. Long, slow strokes that feel good at first but slowly inch towards torture as time goes on. Jack would stroke him slowly, because he would want Sawyer to suffer a little. Fucker would probably grin when Sawyer swore at him, not put off in the least. Then Sawyer would really let loose, swearing up a blue streak, yeah, thrusting into Jack’s hands, and if that didn’t work, he’d beg. Say please. Jack’s grin would widen at that word – _fucker_ – but it would work. Strokes would get shorter, faster. Sawyer wouldn’t last long at all, and he’d curse again when he came all over Jack’s hand. Maybe Jack would laugh then, low in his chest, or maybe he’d just press up against Sawyer, hard and hot and ready for his turn. And whatever Jack wanted, Sawyer figures he’d give to him.

 

They talk sometimes, late at night, when it feels like it’s too hot to breathe and insomnia is a given. They talk about old episodes of Frasier and critique Charlie’s songs, which range from surprisingly good to downright awful. They talk about the first thing they’d eat if they got off the island – Jack wants pasta, Sawyer wants an omelet – and the things they’d do, the places they’d see. They’re always very careful to say ‘if’ and not ‘when’. Sawyer’s pretty sure this island has sucked them in, and both he and Jack know the weight of words.

“I was thinking about what it would be like,” Jack says one night. “If we ever got off the island. How we’d all stick together for a little while, promising to keep in touch.”

“Call. Write. Email.”

“And then we’d just drift away.”

“Yeah.”

“It would be so different, you know? Not having Charlie sing us to sleep.”

“No playing backgammon with Walter.”

“No weekly boar roasting with Locke.”

“No fighting with Abdul.”

“Not playing golf with Hurley.”

“Never having the Princess bitch us out.”

“No running across Locke and Boone in the woods.”

“No more pantomiming with Sun.”

“No more swimming at the waterfall.”

“No more listening to you snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

Sawyer grins. “Then it’s the polar bear.” And the weight of all their words is lifted.

 

The first thing Sawyer notices when he steps out of the cave is that Charlie is sitting between Hurley’s legs playing his guitar. There’s nothing overtly sexual about it, but Charlie’s backside is pretty snugly connected to Hurley, and they’re practically oozing coziness and hormones if you really know how to look. Sawyer would bet his left nut on what happened in _their_ cave last night. And Hurley was one of the few people he genuinely liked. So…

“Hey, Creme Puff.”

Hurley and Charlie both turn to look at him. “Dude?”

“Good work.” He winks.

When Hurley blushes Charlie begins to laugh hysterically. Sawyer gets the feeling his snarky bastard score just took a sharp nosedive in Charlie’s book, but what the hell. He can afford to be nice. Just not too often.

 

They’re talking late one night when Jack mentions his father, and he stops. Just stops. Sawyer’s got to hand it to Locke – the man knows what he’s talking about.

“You daddy, huh? What about him?”

“Nothing. He’s dead. Doesn’t matter now.”

“Bullshit it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” Jack shoots back.

“That’s exactly when you should do it. What the hell are they going to do? Come at you from beyond the grave?”

“On this island? Maybe.”

That’s a thought.

 

When Sawyer steps into the cave and sees Jack sitting in the corner, his stomach drops into his feet. He takes a cautious step forward and tries to ignore how fast his heart is beating.

“Doc? Something wrong?”

When Jack raises his head his eyes are wide. “Uh, ran across Locke in the jungle. And Boone.”

It takes a minute to sink in, but then Sawyer bursts out laughing. He can guess what Jack saw. And the more he laughs the redder Jack’s face gets and the more hysterical Sawyer finds it. It’s a vicious cycle.

Jack looks at him solemnly. “You should have seen what they were doing with the ax.”

Sawyer nearly laughs himself to death.

 

Sawyer hates these nights. Maybe even more than Jack does. Isn’t much fun, puking your guts out, but Sawyer doesn’t like seeing people like this. Doesn’t like seeing _Jack_ like this. He might even hate it.

“Why are you doing this?” Jack asks suddenly. “Why are you helping me?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s not true and the unfortunate part is Jack knows it. Even Sawyer knows that’s wrong. It came out wrong. He doesn’t lie. Covers his trail with stories and fibs, sure, but he never outright _lies_ for no good reason. That’s how you get caught.

“Well, you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?” he tries.

“You’re not me.”

“I know.”

Sawyer has a sinking feeling he just got caught.

“You’re not supposed to care about anyone but yourself.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He’s caught. So caught.

Jack leans into him. Sawyer grabs for his arm.

“You all right?”

“Sawyer, just… shut up.”

He sees the kiss coming from a mile away. He’d be a bit pissed at himself if he hadn’t. He’s played this part too many times; helpless or hurt or needy, whatever it took to pull his mark in. But Jack isn’t playing a game or pulling a con. This is real. And Sawyer can admit that’s enough to throw him off. He can also admit he shouldn’t be quite so into this kiss, especially since Jack just poured the entire contents of his stomach through his mouth. But okay, he rinsed, and it’s not like anyone on the island’s had toothpaste for a while now anyway. And this is – okay, this is good. At the moment Jack’s emotions are extremely fucked up, his priorities are skewed, and he’s not thinking right, sure. But he wouldn’t kiss Sawyer unless he wanted to at some point beforehand. He’d thought about it. A silver lining. Praise Jesus.

But this is still where he pushes Jack away and tells him that now is not the time and that Sawyer won’t take advantage of him when he’s vulnerable and that they’ll talk about this in the morning. Or he should, right? Because Sawyer’s not real good at denying himself anything. Sawyer’s the villain in this story, not the hero, and since Jack has turned to him Sawyer can only do what comes natural?

He wraps his arms around Jack and pulls him close, tight against his chest. Feels the silken heat underneath his palms, heat not of the jungle but of another person. Flesh and blood. And it feels good. Real good. Sawyer’s thigh pressed tightly to Jack’s and Jack slides on top of him, one leg forcing its way between Sawyer’s. And all the while Sawyer doesn’t stop kissing him, doesn’t let him stop, because the stories always take a twist once the kiss ends. Sawyer’s not taking any chances.

“Don’t do this because – ”

“If I do anything it’s because I want to,” Sawyer hisses.

“You want me.” Almost an accusation but something like a plea. Or a prayer.

“Yes.”

Jack’s eyes slide shut. “Please…”

Sawyer presses his hand to the front of Jack’s jeans, and he can’t help feeling like he should be the one saying that word. He’s never had this before - a slow build to sex. His past is full of brief and violent flare-ups, moments that he’d barely remember the next day. He’s never really known the people he slept with. Hell, he never wanted to know them. God, he’s fucked up, and this whole situation is as good as fucked, but what’s he supposed to do? Tell Jack no? Like he could. Fat fucking chance.

“Shit, Doc.”

“Call me Jack. Like this. Not Doc.” The real Jack is back now, steel in his voice, the my-way-or-the-fucking-highway that defines him. That drives Sawyer nuts. That intrigues him. If Jack thinks he can control Sawyer, well, let him try.

“Jack.”

But it won’t be easy.

He pulls Jack to him, a desperate kiss, a click of teeth, and from there it’s easy. Shaky hands pulling pants down and off, rolling hips, greedy fingers. A thousand little moments Sawyer is cataloguing, tucking away to remember for later, little photographs of touch and taste and sight. He’s going to remember this. How Jack smells like smoke and sweat, like jungle smell, and the way he’s shaking slightly, his hands digging into Sawyer’s shoulders. The fingerprint bruises he leaves on the inside of Sawyer’s thighs, and how Jack’s hipbones stick out of his body, and they feel fragile cupped in Sawyer’s hands. He likes how it doesn’t feel like he’s dreaming this.

 

“I’m less crabby when properly fucked,” Sawyer says the next morning when Jack looks at him from across the pillow.

“Useful piece of information.”

 

Sawyer doesn't even want to think about how ridiculous this looks. Naked on all fours in the middle of the jungle like some living, breathing sex experiment while Jack is behind him messing around with the lube and trying to figure out the logistics of Tab A into Slot B.

So far Jack has managed to get two fingers deep inside him and he’s crooking them this way and that, and Sawyer’s having trouble finding enough air to both breathe and insult Jack properly.

"It’s a little to the left, I think."

"Shut up, Sawyer."

"C’mon, Doc. Surely you’ve tried to find a guy’s prostate before."

"Not without gloves," he murmurs, and now Sawyer is trying to get enough air to breath, insult Jack, and laugh. It’s getting difficult.

"Now, it’s pretty simple in theory, but – " Sawyer’s vision flashes white and his hips jerk into Jack's hands. Oh, _fuck_ , but it's been too long.

"Think I found it." The smirk in Jack’s voice is unmistakable.

"Congratulations," Sawyer grits out. "Ten points if you hit it with your dick."

 

He gets dirt and grass stains on his knees, little pebbles stuck in the palms of his hands, and a boost of appreciation for Jack’s hands. Mmm, yes. He’s definitely got a kink where they’re concerned. And he plans on getting Jack to exploit it at every available opportunity.

Sawyer sits back, winces a little. There’s a small cut on his right hand.

“Shit.” He sticks it in his mouth. Jack gives him another look. “Cut. On my hand.”

“So you’re sucking on it?” The doctor in him is appalled.

“I’ve had worse things in my mouth.”

Jack tries not to blush. “You should have said something.”

“Before or after you discovered my prostate?”

Jack looks heavenward and sighs. “Give me your hand.”

“Gonna propose?”

That gets him the infamous hairy eyeball. Sawyer gives Jack his hand.

“You survived a plane crash and knife wound to a major artery. Dying from an infected cut is just stupid.”

Point to the doctor.

“Fine, fine, whatever.”

Jack digs around in his backpack and comes out with a roll of bandages. Sawyer sits in between his legs while he bandages his hand. If Sawyer ever gets off this island, there’s no chance he’ll look at a visit to the doctor’s office the same way again.

“So how many points was that?” Jack asks.

“I’m not sure. I lost count for a while there. Guess we’ll just have to do it again.”

 

No one notices. Not really. Sure, from the marks that appear on Jack’s neck from time to time people must have figured out he’s getting some _somewhere_. They probably think its Kate. Except for Kate, of course, who is probably as confused as hell.

Nothing really changes. Not on the surface. Jack still plays Dr. Hero, Sawyer still sits around and criticizes. From time to time they snarl at each other. Sawyer still smiles infuriatingly and Jack will still look like he wants to smack him. Sometimes he will, and his fingers curl in Sawyer’s hair for a moment. Sometimes Sawyer stares at Jack’s ass when he walks away. Sometimes the two of them disappear for hours at a time. Sometimes Sawyer sees Kate flirting with Jack. He quells the urge to knock her over and instead tells Shannon that Kate called her fat. Much more entertaining.

 

Sometimes Sawyer thinks about what he’s doing sleeping with Jack. Jack’s never been with another man. Sawyer doesn’t mind that, exactly. He likes shocking Jack, showing him all sorts of new things. He was a doctor, but apparently a very sheltered one. And Sawyer knows a lot when it comes to sex. He’s slept with a lot of people after all. Some for the job, some just for fun, but he can count on one hand the number of them who knew his real name. He gets a strange twinge in the pit of his stomach when he realizes Jack isn’t one of them.

Jack starts to murmur in his sleep, and kick, so Sawyer places one hand on his chest and strokes. He stills, at least for a minute. Nightmare chased away.

Sawyer knows people don’t think he’s capable of things like this. Kindness, giving. He isn’t, usually. He doesn’t like to be. He doesn’t like giving into other people’s neediness. But Jack’s not needy. Not really. Jack doesn’t ask for anything because he’d rather get it for himself. Jack takes, but never more than Sawyer is willing to give. That’s something Sawyer understands. That’s what makes Sawyer want to give so much.

Jack starts to kick again and this time Sawyer shakes him. Jack’s eyelids flutter, and Sawyer pulls their blankets back up.

“Sawyer?”

“Who the hell else would it be?” Sawyer quells the urge to pinch him.

“Sawyer,” Jack confirms sleepily.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

Suddenly it doesn’t bother him that Jack calls him Sawyer.

 

Sometimes they roll around on the beach, like animals listening to only what they’re bodies are telling them, or children who don’t care about the rules or what the rest of the world thinks. In those moments Sawyer sees nothing but Jack. Other times Jack moves slowly over him, and it feels like he’s being worshipped, something he doesn’t expect and isn’t used to and doesn’t understand. He maps out Jack’s body, tastes every pulse and feels every curve and line. He _knows_ Jack, in the Biblical way, in every way that’s important.

 

Sun is the first to figure it out. She comes over to him one day when Jack is out in the jungle with Sayid.

“Jack.” She thrusts a small package into his hands.

“This is for Jack? You want me to give this to Jack?”

She nods and smiles, says Jack’s name one more time, and scurries back over to where Jin is frowning.

The rest of the camp is confused. Why trust Sawyer to give something to Jack?

Sawyer gives Sun more credit after that.

 

“So what was in the package?”

“More eucalyptus.”

“Ooh. Been using more than our fair share, haven’t we?”

Jack blushes.

 

Sawyer learned very quickly to be careful about sitting up in the morning. Jack’s hands like to tangle in his hair during the night, and the last time Sawyer sat up without thinking he nearly lost half his scalp. He’s learned to work Jack’s hands out of his hair before he does anything else. Jack sleeps like the dead, so it doesn’t take too much finesse.

“Do you have some hair fetish I should warn Hurley about?” he grumbles one night, and is gratified when Jack blushes.

“I just like your hair,” he admits, and Sawyer doesn’t even snark back properly because Jack’s fingers running over his scalp is doing things to the pit of his stomach he didn’t think was possible.

“Mm. Feels good.” And Jack laughs, the little prick, but he doesn’t stop, so Sawyer lets it go.

That’s the first time Sawyer falls asleep before Jack does.

 

Sawyer hadn’t intended to wake Jack up. It just… you know, happened sometimes.

“Christ, Sawyer. It’s still dark out. You couldn’t wait until morning?”

“I plan on doing it then too.” Okay, so sometimes he intended. Sue him.

Jack slides off of Sawyer and onto his side. “You’ve been sneaking Viagra from the med supplies, haven’t you?”

Sawyer laughs deep in his chest, the sound fading into an almost-purr as Jack wiggles closer. “If Locke doesn’t need it neither do I.”

 

It’s only about a week later when the shit hits the fan. The day had been pretty typical, and by that Sawyer meant ‘boring.’ Now the whole group’s sitting around the fire doing the communal thing, eating and talking and laughing. Sawyer is mostly watching. Sticks is sitting in Omar’s lap, Locke is telling Walt a story. Michael watches Locke like a hawk and Locke watches Boone out of the corner of his eye, but no less intently. Hurley is playing backgammon with Rash Guy. Sun is eating at a distance carefully removed from the group. Jin watches her, of course, and scowls at anyone else. Charlie is even more animated than usual, bouncing up and down like a rubber ball, anxious to show his new song off to Jack. Jack is laughing, trying to get Charlie to sit down and act more like a human being and less like a chipmunk. It’s normal, all normal, and it’s only when Sawyer confirms this that he can relax. That’s when Sawyer’s and Jack’s eyes meet across the fire. Sawyer smiles. Jack grins in response, and turns his attention back to Charlie before the kid spontaneously combusts.

That’s when Sawyer takes a brick to the face. At least that’s what it feels like. Turns out Kate has a mean right hook. Sawyer tumbles off the log because he’s just off guard enough for Kate to smack him a good one. Kate throws herself on top of him and settles on his stomach.

“You’d better take good care of him,” she hisses.

Sawyer knows she’s not saying that out of the goodness of her heart or because she wants Jack to be happy. It’s a warning. If he makes one wrong step Kate will be all over Jack. Like he would expect anything less from her. And like he would give her the chance.

Michael grabs hold of Kate’s upper arm and wrenches her off Sawyer before her head starts spinning or she starts projectile vomiting or tries to eat him.

Before anyone can say anything she stalks off into the jungle. Hurley hauls Sawyer to his feet.

“Dude. What was _that_ about?”

 

They’re back in the cave before Jack dares to say anything.

“What did you do to piss Kate off this time?”

Sawyer grits his teeth. “I smiled.”

Jack looks at him like he isn’t buying it. “O-kay Well…” He pulls his shirt up over his head and Sawyer is dismayed to find himself only mildly interested. He’s just not in the mood for sex.

Huh. Go figure.

Jack’s fingers ghost over the bruise on his face. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

He almost tells Jack to fuck off. He hates being like this; vulnerable and hurt. But he’s seen Jack on his knees, shaking and puking because of a dream, and he guesses turnabout is fair play.

It’s funny. Ironic, even, because the only thing Jack really asks is to take care of Sawyer. Bandage his cuts, skim over his bruises, catalogue every ache and pain. Jack is a doctor at times like this, because that means he can be in charge and be back in control of the situation, and maybe pretend that this island isn’t quite as scary as it seems.

Jesus. On second thought, he does want sex. Right here, right now. With Jack. Because you know what? He might not get another chance. Ever. Anything could happen. Polar bear. Ethan. Rescue. Jack could change his mind. Kate could give him a reason to change his mind.

Up until this point Sawyer has avoided looking the gift horse in the mouth, but he’s been around the block long enough to know gift horses have a way of wandering off after awhile. He’s just keeping that in mind.

Sawyer tilts his face directly into Jack’s hand. “Feel up to taking advantage of a sick man?”

The corners of Jack’s lips turn up. “Always.”

 

“Mm. What are we doing today?”

Jack groans and pulls the blanket over his head. “Sun needs some help with the garden, Sayid needs more wood for the signal fire, and I think we’re on Walt-watching duty.”

“Chances to throw dirt clods at Freckles, make ethnic slurs, and get my butt kicked at backgammon by a ten year old. Sounds like fun.”

“He’s eleven now,” Jack says lazily. “And try not to annoy Kate.”

Sawyer snorts.

“Too much, at least.”

Noncommittal noise.

“No fistfights?”

“I won’t hit her first.”

“You’re such a child.”

Sawyer glares at Jack for a minute before giving up. He sighs. “We should wash the blankets today too.”

“They must be pretty bad if you’re talking about cleaning them.”

“Not everyone adheres to your level of obsessive compulsive cleanliness…”

Jack blearily reaches over and smacks Sawyer on the ass. “Sawyer, shut up.”

Sawyer has to wonder about a relationship where ‘shut up’ sounds like ‘I love you.’

 

“I can’t understand why you actively try to get yourself killed.”

Now is not the time to talk about his suicidal tendencies. “It’s not like I knew the polar bear was on the goddamn trail.”

“So you attacked it with a knife.”

“Was I supposed to just turn tail and run?”

“Yes! You were! Then maybe you’d be here in one piece!”

“I’m in one piece. Just… slightly shredded.”

“Please don’t do that again.”

The quiet dread in Jack’s voice makes Sawyer pause. “Are you really running out of medical supplies?”

Jack runs one hand through his hair and glares at Sawyer. “It’s not the medical supplies I’m worried about.”

Oh. “Aw, you really _do_ love me.”

“Shut up, Sawyer.” If Jack voice shakes when he says it, Sawyer will just pretend not to hear.

 

“We’ve been here six months now.”

“That’s a pretty long time.” Longest time Sawyer’s spent in one place. “You miss home, Doc?”

“Sometimes. What about you?”

“Not really. Don’t have much of anything to go back to.”

“That’s sad.”

There’s pity in Jack’s voice, and Sawyer bristles. “Yeah, well, not all of us had perfect lives.”

“I never said I had a perfect life. Some people might think I do. But I don’t know. I didn’t really like it.” He presses his face into the back of Sawyer’s neck. “And I didn’t say I wanted to go back.”

“Said you missed it.”

“I do. That doesn’t mean I don’t like right here.”

And Sawyer says, “All right,” because there’s nothing else to say.

 

In Sawyer’s world there are two types of people: those who can be conned and those who can’t. Jack, contrary to Sawyer’s first impression, can’t be conned. He doesn’t buy Sawyer’s trick, his filibuster and diversionary tactics. He sees through all that. He sees through all Sawyer’s defenses. So when he asks Sawyer what this is, what exactly it means to him, Sawyer can only answer with one thing. The truth.

It’s love.

 

These days Sawyer doesn’t dream very much. He never has, but when he did it was always about his parents and Other Sawyer. Now his dreams are filled with sand and sun and trees and Jack, and he hasn’t woken up wanting to scream in some time. Jack still has nightmares; Sawyer doesn’t think that will ever change. He usually wakes Jack up before they get too bad though. He does what he can.

He still carries the letter in his pocket. Twenty year old habits are hard to break and he might as well do it while he can. He’s not so sure the letter’s going to last much longer. The sand and sun and water are just too much for it. The ink has faded so much that if he hadn’t all ready memorized the words he wouldn’t be able to read them at all. There are tears at the edges and along the folds. He half-expects it to fall to pieces in his hands every time he takes it out. He’s surprisingly okay with that. Lately he only feels like Sawyer sometimes.


End file.
